The Quiet Things
by wewouldsputter
Summary: AH. When Damon Salvatore reluctantly returns to Mystic Falls to care for his dying father, he crosses paths with the struggling Elena Gilbert, whose parents' deaths have changed her from bubbly cheerleader to disconnected flunker. Unexpectedly, they teach one another about forgiveness, peace, and how to truly live – being in love can change everything.
1. Chapter 1 - Unrecognizable

_**Author's Note:** Hey guys! I'm back to writing after basically dropping off the end of the Earth for the summer. I just got done watching all four seasons of TVD, and I needed to let off some steam through writing - so that's where this story comes in. As a reminder, everyone in this story is human. I did change a few things (artistic license and all), but I wouldn't call it AU because it still follows the basic principles of the story, just minus the vampires. ;-) Hopefully you enjoy this first chapter!_

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**CHAPTER ONE | UNRECOGNIZABLE**

"Jeremy?"

The autumn air gusting behind the school picked up as Elena Gilbert found herself in the stoner pit, located around the corner from the wheelchair ramp and hidden from view of cameras stationed all along the school's roof.

She hadn't meant to find Jeremy there – rather, it was more of an attempt to find Vicki who could then tell her where to find her brother. But instead of finding Vicki, she had found Jer, sitting amongst kids breathing smoke and sipping from brown paper bags. His hood was pulled up over his head, so when she first saw him, she couldn't be sure it was her brother.

The boy's eyes grew wide, and as he moved to hide his face, a lock of his shaggy chestnut hair peeked out from the hood.

Elena's breath caught in her throat. "Jeremy," she said shakily. "What the hell are you doing?"

The look on his face changed from startled to furious as he yanked his hood off, standing from the corner in which he sat and making his way toward his sister.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice was gruff.

"_I _shouldn't be here?" she asked incredulously, and when she couldn't think of anything else to say, she looked down at the joint planted firmly between his fingers. Her mouth dropped open a fraction and she found his eyes again – but there was nothing there she could recognize. No remorse. No shame.

This was not her brother.

He licked his lips and looked past her. "You're going to miss the bus."

"I don't care," she said firmly, then lowered her voice. "When did you start smoking weed?"

Jeremy shrugged. "Whenever."

Elena couldn't believe what she was hearing, but even more what she was _seeing._ He didn't look anything like the boy he was a year ago.

"I don't recognize you," she said, her brown eyes boring holes in his. "Where did my little brother go?"

Jeremy was quiet a moment before finally replying, kicking the dirt near his feet as he took a hit from the joint and blew it into the breeze. "He's gone," he said. "Left town the night you got mom and dad killed on that bridge."

It was too soon – it would _always_ be too soon. And with that, Elena's eyes grew glassy and her right hand trembled, longing to slap Jeremy right across the face. But as she felt that rage building up inside her like a riot, she noticed how much of it she wished she could release on herself.

Because Jeremy was right: it was all her fault.

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"Thanks, Matt." Her voice was soft as she slid the strap of her book bag over her shoulder, preparing herself for the excuse just waiting to come out of her mouth. "I didn't feel like taking the bus again today."

He shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Elena. I get it, your Aunt Jenna's busy, but that doesn't mean you have to resort to taking the bus." Matt paused, glancing over at her as his palms began to clam up on the wheel. "Anytime you need a ride, don't hesitate to ask – you _know_ I'll be there."

Matt didn't say anything about the fact that she was the only senior still taking the bus because she couldn't afford a car. He didn't even remind her that he had to drive twenty minutes out of his way to get her home because she missed the bus. That was just his way – selfless.

Elena shifted in her seat and offered him a smile, even though things were awkward; she had broken up with Matt almost a year ago, right after the accident, and he wasn't over it.

If Elena dug deep down, through all the guilt that clouded her subconscious, she was certain that she _was_ over it. However, her guilt for breaking Matt's heart always made what happened between them seem unresolved.

She walked out from the street, up the long and winding dirt road that led to the front door. The property Elena's family lived on had been passed down from generation to generation. Where the vast expansion of their front yard went empty and unused, a fenced in pasture for horses had once been. Her parents tore it down years ago after seeing no use for the fence – there hadn't been horses on the Gilbert property in decades.

On the front porch, a bouquet of flowers – lilies, daises, and petunias – was placed in a glass vase beside the rickety, white rocking chair.

Elena's hand found the doorknob and she walked inside, where the sunlight streamed through open windows and scattered across the hardwood floors.

"Aunt Jenna," she called, "I'm home from school."

"I'm in here." The familiar voice of Jenna came from the kitchen. Elena strode down the long hallway, framed with pictures hanging off the walls of memories she wished she could forget. A head of red hair faced an open window as steam rose from the sink beneath it, fogging the glass that reached toward the sun's golden rays.

With a sigh, Elena slid her book bag off her shoulder and took a seat at the granite countertop.

"How was school?" Jenna asked, still facing away from her niece as she scrubbed a plate in the hot, bubbling water.

Lying was easy, especially to Jenna who didn't seem to really pay attention to whatever Elena had to say.

"Oh, you know," she said as she leaned forward, "boring as usual. Too many faces look the same this year." Elena paused, shutting her eyes briefly. "They all kind of blend together after a while, you know?"

"Well, I kind of have a sharp name-to-face memory, so that might be more of a personal problem." Elena laughed. "Have you seen Jer?"

Elena twisted a strand of long brown hair around her finger, then bit down on her lower lip. Her eyes opened and she looked away from where Jenna was standing. "I didn't see him after school, I just got a ride home with Matt."

"Oh." Jenna's tone said it all – she wasn't surprised. Jeremy, Elena's brother, had not been home much lately, but now Elena knew why and couldn't even speak up about it.

If her parents had been here, they would be disappointed in them both.

Getting down from off the barstool, she grabbed her bag and announced she was heading upstairs. Jenna didn't turn around, and when Elena left the room, a weight that had been pressing down on her shoulders seemed to give way, releasing its full pressure. It became hard to walk up the stairs without breaking.

She dragged her feet to her room and collapsed on the bed. Her hair sprawled out around her head and she stared blankly up at the ceiling.

It was hard pretending not to feel anything when it seemed like everything around her was urging her to crack.

With a sigh, she reached down under the lip of her bed, between the frame and the mattress. _There,_ she thought as her fingertips found the leather-bound journal she had been keeping for the past year. Elena tugged it out and rested it on her lap, sitting up a little in bed before grabbing the ink pen on her bedside table.

_September 14,_ she started. _This afternoon, I realized that one of the only people in my life I could really rely on doesn't want me in theirs. I should have known better – it's been almost a year now. I can't stop feeling like every smile I fake is bringing me one step closer to diving off the edge... _

_And it's terrifying._

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The Salvatore Estate sat nestled amongst tall pine trees and thick blades of grass, which the man zooming up the driveway on his motorcycle made note of. He was crouched, helmet pressed forward and outright as he screeched to a halt at the front entrance.

He killed the engine and tucked the keys in his pocket, then sat upright and cracked his shoulder blades.

Suddenly, the front door burst open. There stood Stefan Salvatore, who was stuck somewhere between a boy and a man with his childlike eyes wide in surprise, but his forehead creased as though he had lived a lifetime within the past month.

"What are you doing back here?" he bellowed, slamming the door shut behind him as he bolted toward the edge of the porch.

The man still stationed on the motorcycle reached up, lifted the helmet from their head and met the sky with their eyes. Some things never changed.

"Nice to see you again, too, little brother."

Damon Salvatore lifted one leg off the bike and stood firmly on the ground, holding the helmet beneath his left arm.

"You're not welcome here," Stefan said coldly. "Father doesn't want you here, and I certainly don't – so head back to New York, or wherever you went off to."

Damon smirked, then started up the steps, much to the fury of his brother. "Good memory," he stated. "But, whether you like it or not, you and Pops _need_ my help, so you could pretty much throw any flimsy insult you can come up with at me, and _still_ not get me to leave." Damon paused, looking down into the eyes of Stefan as he stood on the top step of the porch.

"You _need_ me," he said again, this time with a more serious tone in his voice.

Stefan didn't even blink. "We don't need _anything_ from you."

Wind whistled through the branches of trees surrounding the estate. Chilly air nipped at the back of Damon's neck, biting, a reminder that although he needed to come back to town, he wasn't welcome. He took a deep breath, looking down at his helmet, then back at his bike, and then to Stefan.

"We'll see," he said, brushing past him into the house.

_He doesn't want me here,_ Damon thought sarcastically. _Like I _so_ want to be here._

But if there was one thing he knew, as much as he hated to admit it – even to himself – he would never really leave his family. Even if that meant dropping out of college, if it meant leaving behind his new life in New York where he could be accepted and ignored at his own leisure, if it meant coming back to the place he had spent so many years imprisoned in...

Even if they didn't want him, he would be there.

And they couldn't stop him if they tried.


	2. Chapter 2 - Disconnected

_**Author's Note: **Wow! Thank you guys so much for all the nice and encouraging comments, and thank you to everyone who favorited or put my story on their alerts. I really can't wait to get further into this story, and to hear what you all think along the way. Please let me know how you like it so far, and thank you all again so much!_

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**CHAPTER TWO | DISCONNECTED**

Damon Salvatore spun bourbon in his short glass, sitting in the armchair in the parlor facing out at the window. The sun felt pleasantly warm compared to the frigid, sterile air in his father's home.

Upstairs, he could hear the arguments soaring, furious words leaving his brother's lips before his father agreed in frustration. Damon closed his eyes and pictured Stefan, standing tall even as he leaned to meet his father's level. Then, Giuseppe, with his graying hair slicked back, thin as it was, while his eyelids slowly slid shut and his head tilted back onto the headboard of his exquisite, elaborately carved headboard.

"_I'm doing all that I can to get him out of here, but he won't listen to me."_

"_Well, maybe he'll listen to my foot up his ass."_

Damon smiled at the overheard conversation, took a sip, and stood. He had to squint to see through the glaring sunshine. Out at the road, the trees spun in the wind, shaking loose a few leaves which danced in the air briefly before floating to the ground.

The conversation upstairs seemed to dim, and although the voices were still angry, they were not as loud and urgent as they had been before. No more flaming fury, only controlled loathing.

And that was all Damon could expect from the two of them. He knew that he wouldn't be welcomed back, and he knew that if he wanted to stay there, he would never hear the end of it from the other two occupants.

The door to the parlor opened, revealing a calm, cool, and collected Stefan. Damon turned from the window, his eyes meeting those of his brother directly.

"You will not be permitted to stay," Stefan said, closing the door slowly behind him. He strode across the room, eyeing the drink already in his brother's hand, and chuckled humorlessly. "I see you've already found father's supply."

Damon shrugged. "It's not like he was hiding it – I mean, really, it's been in the same place for ten years."

"Go ahead," he said, leaning up against the sofa's armrest. "Help yourself to whatever you like." Stefan paused, looking down before meeting his brother's eyes again. "And then leave."

"You keep telling me to leave, and I keep telling you I'm staying. I feel like we could go back and forth for a long, long time, until..."

His eyebrows raised. "'Until,' what?"

Damon stood, started toward Stefan, and paused as their shoulders met. "Until one of us get a foot shoved up their ass."

Stefan's mouth dropped open a fraction as footsteps left the room, followed by a faint "and it sure as hell isn't going to be me."

He waited until the footsteps faded before narrowing his eyes, shoving a fist into the side of the sofa, and shutting his eyes. Damon was the same irritating, unconcerned, hard-headed brother that had left three years ago, and as much as he had hated him when he left, Stefan knew now that he hated him even more after coming back.

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Elena's dark brown eyes watched out the window from her seat in fourth period, trained on the tree on the school lawn as History class dragged on. It was winding and twisted in its trunk, and at the ends of its branches, spidery twigs clawed at the graying sky.

Fall was the beginning of many things, but to Elena, it was always an end.

She felt a kick to the back of her chair, and when she turned around, a pair of glassy blue eyes stared her down from beneath long, thick eyelashes.

"Pay attention," Caroline mouthed, and kicked her underneath her chair.

Elena rolled her eyes, offering her friend a slight smile, sideways as it was. She began pretending to focus, just as her friend had instructed, but her ears rang as Mrs. Pierce's old, frail hand picked up a piece of chalk and dragged it across the chalkboard's green hue. The sound it produced was cringeworthy.

The first week of school was bad, but the second one was worse. It was the beginning of a routine, and the reminder that life dragged on even when she didn't want it to. The worst part was feeling as though she was being left behind by everything and everyone, but in a twisted way, she didn't care.

Elena Gilbert _wanted_ to be left behind.

As the bell rang at the completion of third period, her brown eyes suddenly focused, glancing down at her notebook with nothing written on the open page except the date in the upper right corner.

Caroline shoved her chair before standing, immediately breaking into a tirade about something involving cheerleading. Elena could only bring herself to half-listen, so as her words went in one ear, they came right back out the other. She watched as pink lips moved furiously, ranting about how missing tryouts was just another misdirection in her friend's life – because Caroline was the self-appointed expert on everything Elena did – and she couldn't believe her friend had changed so much.

Of course, she didn't catch half of this, and merely stared blankly up at Caroline. A headache pierced her temples and she drew back slightly, pressing a hand to her forehead.

"Oh, I'm sorry Elena, on top of missing the cheerleading tryouts yesterday after school, and on top of not paying attention in History, I'm _also_ giving you a migraine." She paused, huffing, and folded her arms across her chest.

"Caroline," she started, but was cut off immediately.

"No, don't even bother." Caroline walked past Elena and moved swiftly out the door, chin raised slightly and a scowl scrawled on her face – a face that was almost always smiling, which made her attitude seem out of place.

Or maybe Elena had never seen this side of Caroline. For the past year, her friend had tried to continue including her in everything; more invitations to parties, football games, hangouts with Bonnie, dress shopping for Homecoming... But the more she did to include her, the more it became forced.

Maybe it was all Elena's fault, just as it seemed everything was. She wasn't perky enough anymore to keep up with anyone or anything.

To Elena, crawling into a hole and sleeping through winter was a wishful thought.

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Damon approached his father's bedroom, slowly at first, but with a purpose after reaching the top of the spiraling staircase. The door was clicked shut, and as he raised his wrist, he nearly thought better of it.

_I have to face him sooner or later,_ he thought, nearly rolling his eyes at the thought. _And this isn't going to be pretty._

He listened briefly for any sound, and when he heard none, he knocked three times. Inside, he heard his father groan and stride to the door, muttering something about how it had better be important Stefan, and if that no-good, poor excuse for a son was still lingering about, tell him to –

The door swung open, revealing a man whose face looked nothing like it had before. There were thick creases in his forehead, wrinkles around his eyes and the corners of his mouth – wrinkles that Damon did not remember. His gray hair was thinner, _he_ was thinner. He seemed a shadow of his former self, with dark eyes, dark lips, and a complex darkness to the way he appeared. His demeanor seemed angrier, though Damon couldn't be sure if that was due to his age, his condition, or the fact that his poor excuse for a son was still lingering about – and was standing in his doorway.

"Get the hell out of my sight," Giuseppe spat.

"Well don't get _too_ excited to see me." Damon paused, glancing behind the old man at the bedroom he had exiled himself to. "After reuniting with Stefan, this is certainly a ray of sunlight."

The old man's grimace consumed him. "You are not welcome in my house. You don't belong here."

"I'm a Salvatore, aren't I?" Damon straightened, then nodded toward the bed. "Been doing a lot of sleeping?"

"It's none of your business."

He moved past his father and into the room, trying to ignore the protests suddenly spewing from the man's mouth, and looked around. The window was closed, the blinds were drawn, and the only real light came from a dim lamp at the bedside table. It seemed that a haze had fallen upon the room, covering it in a grayness that came when hope was gone.

"You need some fresh air," Damon said suddenly, interjecting his father's rant which he had not been entirely listening to.

"I don't need anything." His son turned to meet his gaze, which was sharp. "Not as far as you're concerned. Stefan and I–"

"Have it all under control?" Silence hung between them, thick in the air that was stale and hard to breathe. "Because, I mean, as far as I can tell you're living in a prison. I mean, this is just awful."

Giuseppe's forehead creased even further, but he sighed nonetheless. "You expect to just waltz in here, after we haven't heard a word from you in three years, and tell me that you want to help. Well, I don't believe you. And why should I?"

Damon folded his arms across his chest, wishing he had a glass of bourbon to occupy himself with at a moment such as this. All he had was this room that decayed an empty lifelessness, the guilt which gnawed at the insides of his stomach, and his father.

When he finally spoke, it was with such an honesty that Giuseppe had no words.

"I'm your son."

He hung his head and breathed in deeply, which pained his lungs to the point that he let out a cough. Damon eyed the man who in many ways was a stranger, searching for something else to say to fill the void, but there was nothing.

Finally, after the man finished coughing and made his way back to the bed, he closed his eyes and let his shoulders fall.

"You can stay," he said. "But know that you are no son of mine."

Guilt exhausted in the pit of Damon's stomach, and as he turned to leave, he saw his father look away, as though he could not bear another moment in his company... as though he could not bear to see the man his son became.

Damon left quietly, resting his head on the closed door behind him.

_Well,_ he thought after a moment, _that was a bit more painful than I had expected._


End file.
